One Spoonful
by BluSakura
Summary: He fell into a fountain, was publicly humiliated, couldn't breathe through his nose, puked hell knows how many times, had to swallow the most disgusting substance on the planet, and endured Ahiru straddling his lap. Yes, Fakir had a fever. FxA Fluff


_I haven't done a one-shot in a while (even if I really should be working hard on_ Curse of the Dragon_ and_ Loose Ends_ right now). This is a short drabble, and I'm sick as hell, so I'm currently downing a cup of Theraflu. And I needed some senseless fluff before I hit the sack._

_Watch out for lots of phrases that don't make sense, and words that simply don't exist in the English language. Also, maybe OOCness, because I may not be good at keeping them in character. Apologies._

_In my defense, Fakir's sick, and so am I, and I've just had lots and lots of cough medicine._

_Happy reading!_

_---_

_"Ahhh-choo!"_

God, he felt _miserable._

Fakir allowed his head to drop backwards onto his pillow, leaving his mouth wide open. He couldn't breathe through his nose, his eyes were teary and dry, and his throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. Using his right hand, he felt over his soft quilt, yearning for that box of tissues that he placed next to him. When his pinky made contact with the surface of the box, he jerked his hand to grab it.

But, as Fakir was already aware, the universe hated him. With a fiery, burning passion. And so, in his muddled and suffering state, his fingers refused to cooperate with him; instead of grasping the box like he intended, he thrust it away. The sound of a cardboard box of tissues slapping on the hardwood floors of his room echoed in his already-ringing ears. Apparently, Fakir had pushed it off his bed entirely.

He would have to get up to get it.

And then his head would start spinning again.

And then he would have to run for the toilet for the fifth time that day.

In actuality, he had to stop and think for a moment if he'd rather puke his guts out (if there were any contents left within his stomach to regurgitate to begin with) or allow his nose to continue running at a startlingly alarming rate.

Fakir didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe a little of both. And in a rare display of raw emotion, the usually stoic teen released a half-sob-half-chuckle at his utter patheticism.

Patheticism. That wasn't even a _word_. Was he so ill that he resorted to creating his own vocabulary? He smirked wryly. Maybe if he used it in his writing, other people will start using it enough to make its own entry in the dictionary. Would he become famous for that? Would he be the next Bard, people quoting his words without even knowing where they came from or from whom they originated?

Fakir groaned. His moronic, internal ramblings were reminiscent of something that braided idiot would wonder out loud.

That braided idiot. He scowled. It really was her fault he was in this position. Not too long ago, he had written a small entry about her in his journal and had inadvertently changed her back into a girl (and he stopped himself from recalling the memory of her small, naked body pressed up against him when he woke that morning). They were enrolled in the Academy again, and all was well in the now quiet town of Kinkan.

Until the day before, in which she was startled by--as ridiculously as it sounded--some guy with a sculpture in his arms and a tall girl in a donkey suit. Ahiru had flailed as she plummeted right into the fountain. And then Fakir had stupidly, idiotically, why-the-hell-didn't-I-see-this-coming-ly grasped her small hand in his to pull her out. As he recalled, the universe hated him, and thus, his reflexes and years of practiced balance completely _failed_ him as he slipped on (what he believed was) a strategically placed banana peel. Moments later, he was soaked to the bone, sitting rigidly as the stream of water sprouting from the fountain-swan's mouth landed right on top of his head. He burned red with anger (not embarrassment, he swears) as Ahiru sloshed through the water, spazzing and fretting over his sopping condition and stuttering her apologies. Several passersby stopped to stare.

Needless to say, those passersby hightailed it out of there when they met his absolutely murderous sneer. "_Die, die, all of you die, and burn_," scorned his green eyes silently.

The _best_ part was that the day before had been chilly, and Ahiru was quite used to getting wet in the middle of the day. Fakir, on the other hand, wasn't.

He really wanted to _kill _whoever left that damn banana peel right next to the fountain, legalities and knightly chivalry be damned. And he really would do it, too, once he got his hands on the little cretin, but he knew that this act required him to get out of bed.

And then his head would start spinning.

And then he would have to run for the toilet.

On top of that, he might get arrested. And he had no strength to fight off any authorities.

Fakir groaned, wondering why the hell he bothered to try and help that duck-girl in the first place.

"_Because you like her, and you'd do anything for her, and she's everything you could ever ask for and more. Oh, and you're the universe's bitch."_ his frustratingly honest mind replied.

Oh. Right.

It was then that the sound of his door creaking open echoed in his room. Ahiru poked her head in innocently, gazing worriedly at Fakir's pathetic state, sprawled out on his quilt, wastebasket brimming with tissues on the left side of his bed. The green-haired teen scowled halfheartedly at her. Fakir felt slightly better just by seeing her, but he didn't have to show her that.

Slowly, she walked in the room, carrying a paper bag in her right hand and fiddling with the edge of her uniform with the other. "Fakir?" she squeaked, "I'm really sorry you're under the weather. Mr. Cat wondered why you weren't at school today. It's all my fault…"

Wonderful. She was here to make him feel guilty for making her feel guilty. And now his thought processes began to spiral in circles. Great. His head started spinning, and he didn't even have to get up. Fakir lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Moron," he said, his voice raspy, and annoyingly nasal, "Don't worry about me."

"But you don't sound so good…"

"I'm fine." Boldfaced lie. "You should go. You might catch it, too."

Ahiru bit her lip, shuffling her feet. After a moment, she picked up his box of tissues and placed it next to him. He immediately yanked one tissue out, wiping his nose.

As he was doing this, Ahiru placed the paper bag on his writing desk before whirling around and leaving the room. Fakir blinked at the paper bag that she left, but sighed in relief nonetheless; at least she listened to him and left. Her presence would be nothing but an annoyance.

"_Yep. Because you know her concern over you would just continue to make you feel guilty and undeserving of her attentions. After all, it was you who slipped on a damn banana peel, of all things. Really. What are the odds?"_

He really needed to stop thinking to himself. He reached for another tissue.

(Un)fortunately, Ahiru came right back through the door, haphazardly lugging a basin full of water to his side table and biting her lip in concentration, obviously trying not to spill. A soft rag was hanging on the side of the bowl. She placed a cool hand on his forehead, and immediately gasped. "You're burning! I knew it, Fakir! I should have stayed here today!"

"Idiot, will you stop-" His berating was interrupted when Ahiru purposefully slapped the damp, cold rag right on his face and all he could see was white. Though, the coolness was rather soothing…

Ahiru lifted it off him after a moment, pouting at his disgruntled expression. And for a split second, Fakir fought the urge smirk at her adorable face.

Oh, boy, he _was_ out of it.

"You need to get better. And I'm helping you. You don't have a choice, because if I give you a choice, you'll just be stubborn and grumpy and try to do things all on your own even if you can't." She once again slapped the damp cloth on his scowling face before folding it and placing it gently on his forehead. "And I got medicine on the way here." She scampered to his writing desk and lifted a rather large, ugly brown bottle from the paper bag and brought it to the side table with a spoon.

Oh, God.

Oh, God, _no_.

Fakir's eyes widened, and he stiffened on his bed, hands clutching the quilt beneath him. Suddenly, beads of sweat formed on his face, despite the cool rag on his forehead. He stared hard at the bottle, slowly sitting up as if it would leap and attack him if he made any sort of sudden movements. The rag on his head slid off and landed unceremoniously on his lap.

His inner voice rolled its nonexistent eyes. _"Yeah, that's right. Maybe if you stare long enough at it, it will just run away and never come back."_

Fakir's eyebrow twitched, and mentally argued back that if it worked with people, it should work with that hideous bottle.

Ahiru blinked. "Something wrong? I know I got the right one. The people at the store told me just what to get for a fever."

Oh, Ahiru got the right one alright.

And Fakir couldn't _stand_ the stuff.

It had gotten to the point where he honestly had nightmares about the medicine. As a child, he could never tolerate the taste of whatever it was.

And yes, Fakir, as a child, would cry whenever he saw that bottle.

He swallowed, the urge to vomit coming right back, his phobia of that dreaded medicine mixing with his already pounding head. His mouth filled with saliva in preparation for his nausea. "I…" he started weakly, "I don't…want it."

Ahiru frowned, and his insides churned at the expression that he never wanted to see. "But it will make you feel better. And I got it just for you."

Fakir cringed, not really wanting to hear that. But his cringe was immediately morphed into a scowl. "I'm not drinking that…that…_stuff_." He took a deep breath, trying to cover up his growing desperation. "I don't need it."

The braided girl blinked at him, looking back and forth from his face to the bottle. And then she gave him a small smile. "Fakir," she spoke as if she were a teacher speaking to her eight-year-old student, "You don't like the taste of the medicine, do you?"

Busted. "N-Nonsense!" he growled, "I just don't think it's necessary."

Ahiru sighed and unscrewed the cap of the bottle and carefully pouring some into the spoon she brought with her, carefully making sure not to spill. At the sight of the nauseating brown liquid, Fakir turned away, clenching his eyes shut.

Oh, _God_, he hated this!

"Just one spoonful every four hours, Fakir. That's what the label says."

"No." He cringed at the childishness of his tone, further emphasized by his nasal voice. Could this day get any worse?

"Fakir," Ahiru reprimanded him. He certainly felt like a child _now_.

"I said _no._" Fakir turned to her with a snarl, gritting his teeth and emphasizing every letter. "I. Don't. Need. It."

A moment passed when Ahiru didn't say or do anything. She simply stared at him blankly, still holding that God-forsaken spoonful. Finally, with a shrug, she sighed. "Okay."

He let out a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding.

And then he let out a strangled, "_Gah!_" as the small girl jumped on him, straddling his lap and forcing him back down on his bed with her free hand and clutching the spoon in her other.

"_Oh my God, she's ON TOP OF YOU!"_

…Was his inner voice panicking or cheering? Fakir couldn't tell. All he could do was freeze, staring up at the triumphant, smirking girl _on his lap_ with his eyes bugging out and his mouth wide open, not able to decide whether this was a terrible, traumatic experience or the best freaking moment of his life.

But as Ahiru's smirk grew and something that had to be a mixture of sewer water and weeds mixed with some type of growing disease forced its way into his open mouth, he reminded himself that the universe hated him and this was, indeed, a terrible, traumatic experience.

He really would've gagged and spit out every last drop of the detestable sad excuse of a liquid, but as Ahiru pulled the spoon out of his mouth, she shifted on top of him, a movement that spurred him to swallow everything, defiling his taste buds and his esophagus for all eternity.

"See? Now, was that so bad?"

Oh, he couldn't even _begin_ to describe how bad that was. So, he simply answered with an eloquent, "Nnngh…"

Ahiru lifted herself off of him--_not_ to his dismay, he insisted to himself--and placed the spoon on the side table before smiling brightly at him, standing beside the bed with her hands on her hips. "You'll be better in no time, Fakir. And I'll stay right here until you're able to take care of yourself."

He scowled, thoroughly perturbed by her vicious, dirty trick (though it was very possible that she was unaware just how vicious and dirty it really was). "I _can _take care of myself."

Still, she dragged the chair by his writing desk across the hardwood floor, stopping it by his side on the bed. Ahiru plopped herself on it and folded her hands on her lap, staring up at him, seemingly proud of herself or something.

Fakir raised an eyebrow. "So you're just going to sit there?"

At this, she smiled softly and nodded. "Yup!"

"…That's a waste of time. Don't you have anything productive to do?"

Ahiru blinked, then the slightest redness dusted itself across her freckled cheeks, much to Fakir's growing curiosity. "Is making sure you're going to be okay not productive?"

His scowl deepened. "Admittedly, the cloth helped. The…_medicine_, as you call it, was unnecessary, but…appreciated nonetheless." He turned away, forcing down his own blush. "But sitting there _watching_ me for hell knows how long is not productive."

She pouted again. "Why not?! Fakir I care about you more than-!"

He looked back up when she suddenly stopped short, both eyebrows raising at her strange expression. She was biting her lip and wringing her hands in her lap, eyebrows furrowing in what he wanted to call determination. "…Hey, moron. Finish your sentences." he commanded, a little harsher than he intended to.

Much to his relief, she seemed to take no offense to his tone--she was most likely already used to it by now--and simply straightened in the chair. Then, she looked down at her clasped hands, seemingly unable to meet his gaze.

Fakir felt it from the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. "…Ahiru?"

This seemed to _really _catch her attention, because she immediately glanced up to lock gazes with him. If Fakir didn't know any better, he would have assumed that she was…pleasantly surprised or something. The slight blush on her cheeks darkened, and Fakir found himself utterly intrigued.

She licked her lips. "Uh…do you want some soup? Or maybe some warm tea? I'll go get you something!" And she stood from her seat.

Fakir glared and caught her hand before she could leave his reach. "Sit," he demanded firmly. Ahiru gulped as she lowered herself back onto the chair before him. "Now, what's going on?" He stared right into her eyes, almost afraid to hear what she had to say, if she was so frightened by saying it.

For a moment, she seemed to fight herself for a moment, wondering how to put it. But Fakir had enough of it. He fell into a fountain, was publicly humiliated, puked hell knows how many times, had to swallow the most disgusting substance on the planet, and endured Ahiru _straddling his lap_. And with all of his frustration building up, he snarled in his nasal voice, "Just _say it_!"

"I like you!" Immediately, Ahiru's hands flew up to cover her mouth and her eyes lowered to the ground. Then, she said, quieter, "I like-you-like-you."

And it was then when Fakir's heart wedged itself in his throat, his eyes widening. He was certainly not expecting something like _that._ All the same, his inner voice bounced off of nonexistent walls, screaming cheers of glee and accomplishment and absolute and utter joy.

"_Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!_"

On the outside, however, he simply stared at her, mouth hanging open dumbly.

Ahiru bit her lip, taking his silence the wrong way and panicking. "I mean, you got really sick and I wanted to take care of you because I care about you more than anyone else and that's because you've always been there for me and saw me as myself and not something I wasn't and you mean so much to me and when I said I like-you-like-you, I mean that as more than just liking you! I…like you…more than like you…ah…you know?"

Her eyes began to fill with unshed tears as she covered her flaming face with her hands. "And I wanted to tell you that for so long, even as a duck, and now…I'm…ruining everything…"

Fakir's eyes widened even further. What was she ruining? She just made him the happiest damn person in the world and she thought she was ruining everything? How could she-? What was she-? "You…you _idiot!_"

At his alarmed outburst, the tears finally leaked from her eyes, her face twisting in heartbreak. "I-I'm sorry…! Forget…please, forget I said anything…! I'll just go…!"

Dammit, why did he always say the wrong thing?! _"No, no, no! Fakir, you stupid, stupid, stupid moron!"_ He mentally slammed his head into a nonexistent wall. "Ahiru-!"

But she was already at her feet, once again ready to flee the scene as soon as she could. Fakir reached to grab her arm again, and was painfully reminded about how much the universe hated him when his cold-induced lack of balance caused him to miss her hand and slam face first right onto the hardwood floor, legs banging into the chair as he went.

His patheticism was worse than he thought.

She whirled back around to face him, gasping at his compromising situation before stooping down to help him, despite the tears rolling down her cheeks at a constant rate. "Fakir!"

With Ahiru's help, he was sitting up, leaning against the side of his bed, clutching his head as the world began spinning. But he forced his nausea away with the thought of the girl before him miraculously returning his feelings. So, as she settled herself next to him, tears still falling and looking as beautiful and sweet as she always did, Fakir clutched her small hands in his stronger, larger ones, forcing her to lock gazes with him.

And suddenly, staring into her glistening, confused blue eyes, he was speechless. All he could do was try to quell the drumming in his ribcage and cup her small face with his hand, fingers tracing her jaw.

She was honest with him about her feelings. It was time that Fakir was honest with her. "I like you, too," he whispered seriously.

As Ahiru's blush darkened even further if that was at all possible, Fakir swallowed thickly and shook his head, not feeling brave enough to meet her gaze. But as Ahiru mirrored his position and placed her own hand on his face, his eyes met hers. She gave him a bright smile, eyes still teary. With a tug on his arm, they rose together, and she pushed him back into a sitting position on the bed. Ahiru took a step back, clasped her hands behind her back, and her smile grew even larger.

"Ah, you're still sick!" she exclaimed, still grinning from ear to ear, "Is there anything you need? I can still get that soup for you! Or that tea? I'll join you, too, if you want!"

Fakir stared at her for a moment, reveling in the way her eyes twinkled and her smile glittered. He realized then and there that, for once, _he_ was the one to make her happy, and vowed that he would continue to do so as long as she lets him. And he stood, standing before her, gathering her into his arms, and tilting her chin up.

He was so close, he could feel her breath on his lips, and he was certain that she could feel his breath on hers.

And in a manner that completely caught him off guard, Ahiru innocently asked him, "Why aren't you kissing me?"

"_That's what I'd like to know_." his inner voice grumbled.

Fakir groaned and realized why he subconsciously hesitated. "I'm still contagious, you moron." Damn him and his concern for her wellbeing!

She pouted. "So?"

With that, Fakir raised an eyebrow, but allowed her to pull him down by the collar of his shirt and bridge the gap that separated them for so long.

It was okay if she got sick. He'd be there to take care of her anyway.

And he owed her something as well…

---

"_Ahhh-choo!_" Sometimes, she felt like the universe hated her.

"I warned you, idiot." Fakir placed a hand on her forehead. "You have a fever. Do you know what that means?"

Ahiru squinted up at him. "What?" she asked in a nasal voice, making her sound even more like a duck than she usually did.

The green-haired teen smirked, smugly twirling a spoon between his fingers and holding an ugly brown bottle in the crook of his arm. "One spoonful every four hours."

She pouted miserably at him. "Jerk."

---

… _*runs away*_


End file.
